


Full Circle

by Caro Dee (Caro_Dee)



Series: Control-verse [3]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Asphyxiation, Evil!Incacha, Evil!Jim, M/M, Master/Slave, Rape, Restraints, Sensory Deprivation, Sentinel/Guide Bonding, Sexual Slavery, Slave Training, Torture, Unreliable Narrator, blindfold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-22
Updated: 2011-04-22
Packaged: 2017-10-18 12:03:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/188705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caro_Dee/pseuds/Caro%20Dee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim knows exactly what it takes to break a man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full Circle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mason](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Mason).



> Thank you goes to Jane Davitt for betaing. This short story was won by Mason in the 2006 Moonridge Auction.
> 
> This is an Alternate Reality where back in the jungles of Peru, an evil sorcerer captured a sentinel. Jim managed to escape and repressed his senses. Now another guide has found Jim Ellison and he refuses to ever be in the control of a guide again. This story takes place during Jim's time in Peru and a few days after he imprisons Blair.

Full Circle

Jim Ellison waits stoically. He has little choice in the matter. His wrists and ankles are tied, and that wouldn't present a problem for escape except that he's also tied by the neck and ankles to stakes in the ground, so that he's stretched taut between them, and there's very little range of motion possible. He's blindfolded and there's some weird substance -- beeswax or tree sap maybe -- in his ears blocking his hearing. He can't tell if anyone's there watching him or not. He doesn't think so. If there were, they'd have cleaned up his body wastes by now.

In the beginning, every time he tried to test his bindings he was instantly beaten. Since then the surveillance has let up and he's managed to feel out the knots on his hands and neck. They're complex. When his captor replaces the bindings, he cuts them off rather than untying them and Jim can see why. He might be able to work the knots loose if he had an unlimited amount of time alone, but he's not going to get it. He shudders at the thought of what would happen if he was caught before he managed all the knots. Punishments have progressed far beyond beatings by now.

The air in here is rank with the smell of shit and urine. There isn't much of it -- they don't feed him much -- but the local bugs have been wreaking havoc on his digestive system. His ass itches like crazy and he probably has a rash from lying in his own filth.

It's hot and he's sweaty and he hurts all over. He's always thirsty and hungry. Those are easy to deal with. He's also furious and more than a little terrified. He has no idea what they want from him and there's a strong possibility that he's going to die here. But the very worst part is the sheer, unrelenting boredom broken up only by _his_ visits.

Jim's not an idiot. He may be weak and disoriented but he knows what's happening. He knows he's being systematically broken. The technique is crude but effective. That he recognizes it doesn't stop it from working.

Since he can't stop it, Jim endures it and holds onto the faint hope of survival. He knows HQ will eventually figure out that something's gone wrong with the mission. Sooner or later, they'll come looking and he just has to hang on until then. Keep some part of himself back and hope it's enough.

From one second to the next, his entire body tenses and his heart slams into overdrive. _He's_ here. Despite being blind, Jim can't help turning his head towards the entrance of the hut. He doesn't know why he's so sure but he is. He can feel _him_ standing there watching.

The frantic drumming of his heart sends blood pulsing heavily throughout his body and, to his bitter shame, his cock starts to harden. He lies there in the silenced darkness, completely vulnerable to the other's gaze while between his legs his cock slowly betrays his anticipation.

The swirl of air currents alert him to his captor's approach. A casual finger runs up his cock and Jim shivers at the sensation. An approving pat and then the hand disappears to reappear at his neck as the rope is cut off.

He's unceremoniously shoved onto his side as the soiled leaves are removed and fresh ones laid down. A damp cloth wipes off his ass. It's done with the brisk but gentle efficiency of a mother cleaning her child. A hand on his hip urges him to his back again.

Next, the hollow gourd is held up to his cock, but he's hard and can't piss. There's a pause, then his balls are grabbed in a slowly tightening grip. It starts to hurt and Jim tenses and chokes back a cry of protest. When the grip is released, the gourd touches his cock again and Jim realizes he's gone soft enough to piss now. There's not a lot in his bladder but he squeezes out what he can. When he's done, another cloth is used to wash his genital area.

The other disappears. The smell of shit dissipates a little and Jim knows the cloths and the soiled leaves have been removed from the hut. When the other comes back, Jim smells food and his stomach cramps with hunger.

The other is at his shoulder, one arm slipping under him and helping him sit up. Jim tries to sit up himself, but he's grown weak from inactivity and lack of food. The other settles in behind him and Jim leans back against his chest. It's an oddly nurturing position and does in fact mean he's about to be fed, but Jim can't make the mistake of thinking it means anything else.

A cup of water is held to his mouth and Jim guzzles it, careful not to let a drop spill. When he's done, the cup is removed and a piece of stewed root vegetable of some kind is held to his mouth. Jim opens his mouth to be fed. He doesn't recognize what kind of meat is in the stew either, but it tastes better than the vegetable.

He lingers over the food, chewing each piece thoroughly before swallowing. He doesn't want to think about what's next, just lets himself enjoy the food and the warmth of human contact. The food's not enough to fill him, but he knows that it's not supposed to. He's being shown he's as weak and dependent as a baby and the other is the source of all things good and bad. That thought reminds him of what's coming and he starts shaking. The other shifts a little and the second arm curls around him to hold him as he's rocked back and forth gently. If Jim could hear, he suspects there'd be soothing murmurs, too. Another chunk of meat is held to his lips. Jim eats obediently through the involuntary trembling. He needs all the food he can get.

When the food is gone, the bowl is set aside. The other eases out from behind Jim and lays him down. Jim wants to kick and strike out with his tied hands and run far away. Instead he lies there, muscles rigid with the effort of not moving, as the rope is tied back around his neck and he's completely immobilized again.

His body wants to hyperventilate and Jim has to force himself to breathe slower. He can't stop the shaking. He blanks his mind and waits for it to start.

The first stab still takes him by surprise. It's a jab to his inner thigh, perilously close to his balls, and Jim startles in pain and fear. Oh God, not his balls. It's a relief when the next strike is at his stomach. The first few are never as painful as Jim remembers, but the pain always grows and sharpens until it's worse than anything he can imagine.

He's had training in what to expect if interrogated. Beatings, burns, shocks -- nothing feels as bad as this. It was only a thorn, a couple of inches long, but his captor wields it with skill, knowing the exact places to cause the most pain. But even that doesn't explain it. It has to be something put in the food, some Peruvian herb that increases sensitivity until a slender thorn feels like a giant knife slicing him open.

The jabs come quicker and never in the same place twice. It's agonizing. All Jim can do is jerk and twist and yell. Tears and snot run down his face. If he hadn't emptied his bladder earlier, he'd be pissing all over himself again.

It doesn't take long before he's begging. He knows his captor doesn't understand English and he's forgotten most of the sketchily memorized Quechua he learned for this mission, but the words 'no' and 'stop' and 'please' are burned into his brain forever. It makes no difference. The stabbings continue steadily, remorselessly. If only Jim knew what _he_ wanted he'd do it. Anything to stop this. But nothing is conveyed or demanded. There's nothing Jim can do. Nothing. At some point, he stops trying to twist away to escape the pain, just lies there and takes it, only jerking briefly at each new stab.

It takes him a couple moments to realize when the session is over and relief floods through him so intensely that it's almost orgasmic. His face is washed off and some kind of unguent is spread over the wounds that briefly stings, then numbs. A warm hand is placed over his heart and they both wait for Jim to recover himself.

Jim's cock revives first, twisting and lengthening along his stomach until it's hard and impatient. Jim still feels too raw and exposed. He desperately wants what's coming next and he knows what that means. Pain and pleasure are being imprinted on him as if he were an experimental rat. He doesn't care anymore. He just wants to stop hurting. He lifts his bound hands up and over his head, leaving his entire abdomen exposed and vulnerable.

As if that was the signal, the hand sweeps down his belly, past his cock without touching, and continues down his thigh, then back up again. Delicate strokes that tease and sensitize his skin move continually over his body. Jim sighs and his body relaxes. The hand cups his face. It's not affection, he knows it's not, but Jim turns his face into the caress anyway. It always seems to please _him_ and right now that matters. Very, very much.

The hand leaves his face and Jim moans in anticipation. The first touch of the -- Jim calls it a fan although from the feel it's just a bundle of downy feathers tied to a stick -- fan on the head of his cock sends such a sharp jolt of pleasure through him that his hips jerk upward and he gasps. Oh God, yes. Finally.

The fan teases slowly down the length of his cock and flirts around his balls. There isn't a lot of give, but Jim spreads his thighs as much as he can and the fan obligingly moves further down below his balls. The tickling sensation is maddeningly good, but if Jim concentrates the feeling grows deeper, more solid, less a tease and more something that can build towards orgasm eventually.

The fan returns to his cock, sweeping up and down in a slow, steady rhythm. Jim's awareness is entirely focused on his cock and the waves of pleasure spreading through his body. It's so good, so fucking amazingly good. The nightmare reality of his life fades away into bliss. He wishes he knew what kind of drug he's being given to make everything so intense; the pharmaceutical companies would kill for this.

His breath is coming faster as the pleasure builds. Just as every muscle tenses in preparation for orgasm, the fan lifts away. Jim groans in disappointment, but lets his body relax. He knows they'll do this many more times before he's allowed to come. He lies there waiting, cock throbbing, until it starts again.

The cycle is repeated again and again. Each time the pleasure grows impossibly higher. He can feel it in every cell of his body. Before long he's straining against the ropes, body twisting upward, trying to follow the fan, keep it where it's most intense, trying desperately to come. His head is thrown back, neck tendons rigid, mouth open, panting and crying out 'please, please, please' in Quechua. But just like the torture, _he's_ ruthless and implacable. What Jim wants matters not at all. There's nothing he can do to make this happen any faster. Jim doesn't care, couldn't stop the desperate heaves of his body if he tried, isn't aware of anything but the all-consuming need for orgasm.

He's so focused on the pleasure that when fingers appear at his mouth it takes a few moments for it to register. A jolt of adrenaline brings him out of his dazed state. This is new and new is bad. The fingers stroke his lips and then tap sternly. Jim realizes it's a warning not to bite only after two fingers slip into his mouth and rest on his tongue. Jim swallows hard and the two fingers pull back, then return, sliding in and out of his mouth. Jim obediently holds his mouth open but he has a bad feeling about this.

The fan is rested against his stomach and the fingers withdraw. Then something round and blunt pushes at his mouth and Jim instinctively jerks his head aside and clamps his mouth shut. His nostrils flare as he picks up the rank scent of unwashed male crotch right in front of him. Oh _hell_ , no!

A brutal grip on his jaw brings his face back around. _His_ cock pushes at Jim's clenched mouth again. Jim grunts his refusal. He'll fucking chew that bastard's cock off first.

The grip on his jaw tightens painfully, but Jim refuses. He's grunting, 'No! NO!' through clenched teeth. His head is held still as the other hand rests on his cheekbone. There is a sudden, delicately sharp prick on his eyelid. Oh Jesus Christ! Horror swamps Jim as he realizes it's the thorn pricking through the blindfold. His captor's hand is steady, but making that kind of judgment through several layers of cloth... Jim breaks into a cold sweat and holds very, very still.

They stay frozen like that for long minutes. Jim has plenty of time to contemplate the loss of his eye and the nature of infection in a Peruvian jungle. When the thorn is finally withdrawn and his jaw released, Jim reluctantly opens his mouth to the next nudge.

He wants to gag. It tastes terrible. But the cost has been made clear to him and he knows his captor will do it. He gingerly shapes his mouth around the cock and begins to suck.

An approving pat to his cheek and then the fan is picked up again. The angle is probably terrible for his captor, bent over Jim's head and arm stretched back to stroke the fan over Jim's cock, but the rhythm never falters. The strokes follow the same tempo as Jim's tongue and speed up as he does. The pleasure returns, and it distracts Jim enough that he stops thinking about what's happening up here and only thinks about what his body is feeling down there. The pressure to come builds again and he sucks faster, harder. The fan obliges. He's almost there, almost there... when the fan lifts.

Jim moans in protest around the cock in his mouth. Still up until now, it begins to thrust. Jim is grateful that it's not quite deep enough to choke him. The head of his own cock is teased for a few delicious seconds, then the stimulation stops. His captor's cock is steadily working in and out of Jim's mouth. The tantalizing touch comes again. Stops. Starts again. Never enough for Jim to come. Enough to keep him just this side of it. Frantic and greedy for it.

Jim gets it. _He_ has to come first before it will be Jim's turn. Distant memories of blow jobs Jim's enjoyed come back to him and he swirls his tongue over the tip of the cock. The cock twitches in excitement and Jim figures that works. He runs his tongue everywhere he can reach until the cock suddenly speeds up and there's semen flooding his mouth.

Jim swallows as best he can. Jesus, that tastes foul. The cock is still moving faintly but it's the movement from stomach muscles gulping air. The first sign the evil bastard has shown of being human. Even _he_ gets overwhelmed when he comes. Jim clings to that thought. _He's_ human. Jim can survive this.

The cock pulls out and the fan begins furiously flying back and forth over Jim's cock. The orgasm that had receded during the last minutes of the blow job comes back with a vengeance. His entire body tenses as his hips go into overdrive thrusting up into the air. The fan follows his thrusts, never letting up. Oh God, he wants this, he wants this forever...

The ecstasy swells up, builds, and abruptly peaks into an orgasm so powerful, so clean and joyful that Jim bursts into laughter as he shakes through it. For these few seconds, he's free. Then it's over and he collapses back down on his bed of leaves.

He lies there drowsing in the afterglow. The soreness and discomfort will come back soon enough; he's going to enjoy this while he can.

Suddenly, something drops onto his chest. Jim startles violently until a hand rests on his check, thumb tracing along his lower lip. Jim's heart races as he tries to figure out what's going on. The hand leaves his face and moves the light object higher up Jim's chest. Jim realizes it's some kind of flower with a sweet, strong odor that overpowers the less appetizing smells in the hut. A finger caresses Jim's mouth again and then disappears. Air currents swirl and then _he's_ gone again.

Jim's cracked lips slowly stretch into a disbelieving, cynical smile. Flowers: the traditional courtship gift. Thanks for the blow job, sweetheart. Looks like he's got himself a fucking boyfriend. Jim chokes with laughter as the cloying scent of tropical flowers fills his nostrils.

After a while, he falls asleep. It's either that or lie awake so bored that even _his_ return begins to be longed for.

* * *

Blair struggles desperately as Jim uses his seated weight on Blair's chest to pin him down. Jim grimaces as he tightens his grip on Blair's mouth and nose cutting off his oxygen, grateful that the blindfold prevents Blair from seeing his face. He's not enjoying this, but he doesn't have much of a choice.

Being held captive, even blind and deaf, in one's own bedroom doesn't begin to have the same disorienting effect as being trapped in a world where nothing is familiar. Jim's been forced to go to a more primal level than Incacha ever did. He's weighed his options and thinks this will work better for both him and Blair than the deliberate torture Incacha used.

The body understands that lack of oxygen is death. He's teaching Blair's body that Jim controls the very air it breathes. It's unpleasant, but Jim's done worse, and he knows Blair will survive without a scratch on him. Just the deep, subconscious conviction that his continued existence is dependent on Jim's permission.

Blair's struggles are growing weaker as the lack of oxygen affects him. Jim assesses him carefully. He doesn't want Blair passing out. When he removes his hand and lifts his weight up a little, Blair draws in several whooping breaths, then yells, "Fuck you, Ellison. What the hell is this? You trying to kill me?"

If he can talk he's gotten enough breath back. Jim clamps his hand back over Blair's nose and mouth for another round.

After he recovers his breath this time, Blair says quietly, "Jim, you don't want to be doing this, man. Can't we talk about this?"

Still too much in control. Again.

This time, Blair just whispers, "Please stop."

Much better. Again.

Such a quick learner. This time, after the sobbing in-breaths subside, Blair remains silent. Jim smiles and pats his cheek approvingly. It's only a first step, but it's enough for now. He slides back off Blair's chest in a clear physical signal that this part is over.

Now comes the part that Jim loves without reservation. He slicks up his cock and wipes his hand off on the sheet. Moving quickly and surely, he flips Blair over onto his stomach. Blair's no lightweight, but it's important to give the impression of effortless, overpowering strength. He kneels between Blair's legs and heaves him up on his knees, shoves his legs a little farther apart, and without more ado slides his cock into Blair's ass. He's not rough about it, although Blair's probably still sore from this morning, but he's not overly gentle either.

Blair grunts and his asshole clenches tight around Jim's cock, but otherwise he remains still and Jim is willing to accept that. He sets up a slow, steady pace that shouldn't cause too much pain, but that's just right for the pleasure to build.

He thinks he just might be in love with Blair's ass. Incacha had always fucked him, so this is brand new to Jim. No wonder Incacha was so into it. Jim closes his eyes and drifts on the sensations.

After a while, he stops and pulls out. Time for a change of position. He shoves Blair flat, flips him over as easily as a rag doll, and pulls him roughly down the bed and up on Jim's lap, where Jim's cock is waiting for him. A quick re-insertion and Jim grabs Blair's ankles with a grip carefully calculated to grate slightly on bone and pulls them straight up in the air. Perfect.

He rolls his hips and sighs in satisfaction. He likes this position. His strength and Blair's helplessness is emphasized and the angle hits Blair's prostate just right. Jim has a great view of Blair's cock as it hardens. Not he gets to come just yet; Jim's orgasm takes priority. But afterwards, Jim's planning on sucking Blair long enough to drive him absolutely crazy before giving permission to come. That's the reward part of being a sentinel's sex toy.

Nice image. Jim smiles with anticipation. But that's later. Right now... right now it's Jim's turn and he's earned his right to enjoy this.

* * *

Blair's been fed and watered, taken to the bathroom, and tucked back in bed with his collar chained to the hook in the wall, all nice and cozy.

Jim fetches the anthropology journal that Blair had mentioned wanting to read the night he moved in. He never got the chance because Jim's kept him otherwise occupied since then. Jim makes himself comfortable on the mattress next to Blair.

Jim knows Blair's not like him. Blair's a healthy young male and sex is important to him, but it's not what he's about. He's not a sentinel. Also, Blair's tough in different ways than Jim's warrior skills. He's quick to obey and send submissive signals, but his brain is constantly assessing the situation and weighing his chances. He's nowhere close to surrender. Jim admires him for it, even though it makes his job harder.

Knowledge is Blair's key and mental stimulation for that busy brain or lack thereof is what matters most to him.

Jim reaches over to pull out one of Blair's ear plugs. He turns to the first article, places his hand on Blair's chest over his heart, takes a deep breath and begins to read out loud:

The Dichotomy of Awe and Suspicion: when aboriginal and western worlds meet in a first contact situation.

Blair's face turns towards him, listening intently. After a few days of sensory deprivation, he's hungry for words, for ideas to cling to from his old life.

Jim reads the technical article as clearly as he can, even though it's boring as hell. He stops frequently to get a glass of water or stretch his legs, once to jerk off on Blair's chest. Blair's facial muscles move in ways that suggest he's rolling his eyes even though that part of his face is hidden by the blindfold, but Blair listens silently and waits out the interruptions like a good boy. Just enough stimulation to keep Blair focused and never quite enough to sate.

Jim stops about halfway through the article. "That's it for tonight. If you behave this well tomorrow, you'll get the rest of it."

Blair looks distinctly unhappy, but he stays silent as Jim replaces the ear plug. Jim feels cautiously hopeful that Blair is starting to understand that rewards can be earned, but only through Jim's generosity.

It's going to take a while to train his guide just right, but Jim is patient. He'll do whatever it takes. His future depends on it.


End file.
